Night at the Dragon
by Anarchy Duck
Summary: PreQuest. A conversation between three cousins and a gardener is held at the Green Dragon. no slash, no sex, no profanity


Title: Night at the Dragon

Author: StarfireMoonlight

Genre: General

Summery: Pre-Quest. A conversation between three cousins and a gardener is held at the Green Dragon. (no slash, no sex, no profanity)

Author Notes: Written for Marigold's Challenge #26, who asked, 'what sorts of idioms might the hobbits have, or the elves?' Random elements include: a bottle of Brandywine Ale and a sporting event.

Disclaimer: All characters, items, places, and themes, belong to Professor J.R.R. Tolkien. I don't own a thing, although I get to think about them whenever I please.

NIGHT AT THE DRAGON

"I do believe this is the most crowded night I've ever seen." Merry Brandybuck, observing his surroundings.

Frodo nodded in agreement. "I do believe it is," he said, "Although, it's odd not to see those Boffin lads."

"They're probably at the _Ivy,_" said Pippin, setting his tankard down. "What is this anyway?" he added, looking at the brown liquid.

"I ain't too sure, though it tastes like something out of Tookland." Sam put in.

"And how would you know, Sam Gamgee, the only hobbit I know who has not ventured past Bywater?" asked Merry, unable to hold back a grin.

"Now, now, Mr. Merry, I may not have gone too far, but I know the differences between Hobbiton-local and Tookland ale."

"I wouldn't doubt that." Merry murmured, taking another drink and casting a look at Pippin. "And Pippin, what sort of question is that to ask? You of all people should know what sort of ale this is!"

"They all taste the same to me," the young hobbit replied in his defense.

Frodo shook his head. "No, they don't." he said. "Tookland ale and Hobbiton ale is quite different. It's as different as daylight and dark."

"It's quite true, although I prefer Buckland's ale."

"You would! Now, that is one you don't want to be fooling around with," said Frodo.

"Why's that?" asked Sam, who reckoned his master had had his fair share of different ales.

"Well, it has a very strong aftertaste to it." Frodo said.

"This coming from someone who got drunk on it," Merry chortled. "Had to be _carried _back to the Hall, from what I heard."

"At least it wasn't as bad as finding you with **a** **bottle of Brandywine ale**!" Frodo exclaimed, holding back a laugh. "Too drunk to stand, might I add!"

Pippin watched as the scene unfolded before him. The two would carry on all night if they were allowed. He shrugged before taking another swig from his tankard and looked about. He caught the end of Frodo's sentence; something about drinking Merry under a table. He snorted and burst into a fit of giggles. The other three looked at him before they themselves dissolved into a fit of helpless laughter for no particular reason.

"Wh-what does that, uh, mean?" Pippin asked grinning. "_Drinking someone under the table._"

"It means...uhmm...I'm not entirely sure just now," Said Frodo, the alcohol taking hold of his thinking process.

Merry suddenly got up from the table, but no one paid any attention.

"Do you know what I heard today? That the annual Race isn't coming to Hobbiton," Sam put in, his mind still not too clouded by ale.

"Really?" Frodo said in disbelief. "But, it's always held in Hobbiton." The races were usually held either in the Party Field or by The Water. It was where many hobbit lads gathered in competition with one another to see who was the fastest. The whole thing had been going on for the past eleven years, no one quite sure exactly how it started up.

"This year it ain't."

"Where is it going to be then?"

Sam shrugged his shoulders. "Milo Burrows says in Buckland, but the lad is two sandwiches short of a picnic, if you understand me."

"Two sandwiches short of a picnic?" Pippin questioned.

"It's a saying, Mr. Pippin, means ain't really nothing going on up here," Sam explained, tapping the side of his head.

"Oh...Merry, have you heard..." Pippin discovered that his cousin was no longer in his seat and looked around curiously. "Where'd Merry go off to?"

Before anyone could reply, a bottle was placed in the middle of the table.

"Here we are! **A bottle of Brandywine ale**." Merry proclaimed, resuming his seat and reaching over to open the bottle. "I wager you've never had any of this, now have you Sam?"

Sam looked at the dark bottle and shook his head. "No sir, I don't reckon I have."

Merry grinned and there was a spark of mischief in his eyes as he poured the some of the contents into Sam's tankard, then into Frodo's, Pippin's and his own.

Frodo shook his head. "Be careful with that, Sam, it will knock you from your seat." Sam smelled the ale suspiciously.

"I will, Mr. Frodo, don't you worry." Sam replied. The drink smelled very strong and Sam wasn't about to take his chances with it.

Pippin was the first to take a large gulp of the ale. When he had managed to swallow, his green eyes grew round and he blinked several times.

"Hoy, that's strong!" he breathed out. Merry burst into laughter and Frodo held back a chuckle, smiled.

"Frodo wasn't jesting when he said it would knock the chair out from under you," Merry commented before taking a slow sip himself.

"It nearly knocked me clear to Buckland!" Pippin exclaimed. He was hesitant about taking another taste but Frodo said, "Just sip it very slowly. It'll only throw you if you drink it too quickly."

Sam had taken their advice and was drinking his quite slow (slower than he would with any other ale) to prevent what happened to Pippin. It was actually quite good, although no doubt they'd all pay for it later on.

The Sun rose, casting Her radiant light through the windows of Bag End. Its inhabitants, who would normally welcome such light, had buried themselves deep within their blankets.

Frodo was the first to wake, although he wished he hadn't. His head felt as if a blacksmith's hammer was steadily pounding and his stomach didn't feel any better. He lay there hidden beneath the covers for quite some time before he slowly sat up. He was still fully dressed, although his braces were a bit crooked, only one being on his shoulder, but he paid no mind to it.

He grimaced as the light fell on him and clutched his aching head. Frodo sat like that for another moment before getting up and drawing the curtains closed. He walked carefully to the door and went down the hall towards the kitchen. With great effort he made a pot of tea and poured himself a cup before sitting down at the table, slowly taking sips from it and waiting for Merry and Pippin to drag themselves out of bed.

He only vaguely remembered the previous night, and seemed to recall something about two sandwiches and Brandywine ale. He did hope they hadn't done anything too foolish.

Frodo suddenly heard the creak of a door and soft groans before Merry and Pippin entered the kitchen. Both of them looked a bit pale and their eyes were somewhat red and b.

"Morning," Frodo said quietly. "There's tea over there. Drink it and you'll feel a bit better."

"I don't know how. I feel as if I've been run over by a herd of oliphaunts. Twice!" said Merry as he poured himself and Pippin a cup of tea.

Pippin didn't say anything, just gratefully accepted the tea, taking slow sips from it. He didn't remember anything from the night before.

"Pip, you're being rather quiet. Do you have a headache?" asked Frodo the tween sympathetically.

Pippin nodded then clutched his head at the movement.

"Don't worry, it'll get better. Just drink the tea." Frodo said, feeling a bit sorry for the lad. He wasn't used to hangovers, being this his third time at his age. Paladin still didn't let him have too much ale. Frodo felt badly. He should have been more careful for his young cousin. But Pippin was growing up, and Frodo hated to baby him.

"'S Merry's fault." Pippin mumbled.

"My fault? How is your hangover _my_ fault?" Merry asked sharply, despite his aching head.

"You were the one who brought us that Brandywine ale." Pippin replied rather testily.

"I wasn't the one who drank it too fast," Merry retorted.

"I am the eldest and I should have known better than to let either of you have it at all." said Frodo, determined not to let the two get into an argument over who was to blame for their aching heads. "If you want to blame someone, blame me."

"Oh, I don't blame you, Frodo," Pippin said, "I blame whoever created that ale without any warnings. How is one supposed to know to drink it slowly?"

Merry shrugged. "I just know whoever made it is two sandwiches short of a picnic."

Pippin groaned and laid his head on the table. "Don't even mention food! My stomach feels too queer to even think about eating today."

Frodo raised an eyebrow at that. Perhaps he should lay in his own supply of Buckland ale.


End file.
